🚀 Pipeline Results Report

**The Habit of Truth**

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But you whisper in languages I've forgotten how to hear—
In the silence between heartbeats,
In the space where breath becomes prayer.

I've grown deaf to your gentle persistence,
Trained my ears for louder, easier songs:
The chorus of convenient lies,
The symphony of what I wish were so.

Yet you wait, patient as morning light,
Persistent as water finding stone's weakness.
You don't shout over my defenses,
Don't compete with my comfortable fictions.

Instead, you settle like dust in quiet corners,
Accumulate in moments when I'm still enough
To notice how my own voice sounds
When stripped of all its careful decorations.

Truth, teach me the discipline of listening—
Not just to your words, but to your silences,
Not just to what you reveal,
But to what you ask me to release.

For speaking you requires more than courage;
It demands the daily practice
Of turning toward what is,
Rather than what I've convinced myself should be.

In this habit of attention,
Perhaps I'll find my voice
Has always known your shape,
Has always been your instrument.

**The Habit of Truth**

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But you whisper in languages I've forgotten how to hear—
In the silence between heartbeats,
In the space where breath becomes prayer.

I've grown accustomed to louder voices:
The clamor of convenience,
The sweet lies that taste like honey on my tongue,
The comfortable fictions that let me sleep.

Yet you persist, patient as morning light,
Waiting at the edges of my consciousness
Like a faithful dog I've learned to ignore,
Still hoping for recognition, for welcome.

Truth, you are not the thunderbolt I expected,
Not the burning bush or parting sea.
You are the quiet knowing that arrives
When I finally stop talking long enough to listen.

In the habit of your company,
I discover my own voice—
Not the one that performs for others,
But the one that speaks from bone and marrow.

Teach me this discipline:
To sit still in your presence,
To let your difficult grace
Reshape the architecture of my days.

For in learning to listen to you,
I learn to speak myself truly—
No longer stranger to my own heart,
No longer afraid of what I might find there.

**The Habit of Truth**

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But you whisper in languages I've forgotten—
In the pause between heartbeats,
In the space where breath becomes prayer.

I've grown accustomed to louder voices:
The clamor of should-be and must-have,
The insistent drumming of tomorrow's worries,
The sweet lies that taste like honey on my tongue.

Yet you persist, patient as morning light
Creeping through curtains I've drawn tight,
Gentle as rain on parched earth,
Steady as the tide that knows its time.

To listen is to become still water,
To let the sediment of pretense settle,
To see clearly through to the bottom
Where you've been waiting all along.

Truth, you are not the harsh judge
I imagined in my fearful youth,
But the kind friend who sits beside me
In the dark, speaking what is.

Teach me the discipline of silence,
The courage of open ears,
The habit of turning toward you
Like a flower follows sun.

For in listening, I learn to speak you—
Not as weapon or shield,
But as the breath that gives life
To words worth saying.

**For the First Time in My Life**

For the first time in my life,
I understand the weight of silence—
how it settles like snow
on the shoulders of the grieving,
how it holds space for what
words cannot carry.

For the first time in my life,
I see my mother's hands
not as the ones that braided my hair
or packed my lunches,
but as vessels that have known
their own secret sorrows,
their own quiet victories.

For the first time in my life,
I taste the salt of tears
that aren't born from pain
but from the overwhelming beauty
of watching strangers help strangers,
of witnessing love
in its most ordinary clothes.

For the first time in my life,
I feel the earth turning beneath me—
not as metaphor,
but as truth,
spinning us all toward tomorrow
while we sleep,
while we dream,
while we learn to forgive
ourselves for being human.

For the first time in my life,
I am not afraid
of not knowing
what comes next.

**For the First Time in My Life**

For the first time in my life,
the mirror shows a stranger—
not younger or older,
but someone who has finally
stopped apologizing
for taking up space.

For the first time in my life,
I said no without explanation,
watched the word hang in the air
like a bird finding its wings,
felt the freedom in its flight.

For the first time in my life,
I planted seeds in spring
believing I would be here
to see them bloom,
trusting in tomorrows
I used to fear would never come.

For the first time in my life,
I called my father by his name—
not Dad, not Sir—
just the sound his mother gave him,
and heard him laugh
like he remembered being young.

For the first time in my life,
I understand that courage
isn't the absence of fear
but the decision to dance
with trembling hands,
to love with a heart
that knows it might break,
to speak truth
even when my voice shakes.

For the first time in my life,
I am exactly where
I'm supposed to be.

**First Time**

For the first time in my life,
I watched the sun rise
without checking my phone,
without calculating how many hours
until the next deadline,
the next obligation,
the next reason to run.

For the first time in my life,
I let myself cry in public—
not the polite tears
that come with tissue and apologies,
but the ugly, honest sobs
that shake your whole body
and remind you that you're alive.

For the first time in my life,
I bought flowers for myself,
carried them home like a trophy,
arranged them badly in a mason jar
and felt proud of their crooked beauty,
their defiant bloom.

For the first time in my life,
I called my grandmother
just to hear her voice,
not because it was her birthday
or a holiday,
but because I suddenly understood
that someday I won't be able to.

For the first time in my life,
I am learning that growing up
doesn't mean having all the answers—
it means being brave enough
to sit with the questions,
to let them change you,
to trust that becoming
is a lifelong art.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has become my native tongue,
And whispers feel like foreign words
That stumble on my lips like stones.

I've grown accustomed to the noise—
The chatter of convenient lies,
The symphony of sweet deceptions
That lull me into comfortable sleep.

Yet somewhere in the quiet hours
Before dawn breaks the spell of night,
I hear you calling through the darkness,
Your voice as clear as mountain streams.

You ask for nothing but attention,
No grand gestures or sacrifice,
Just the simple act of listening
To what I've always known but feared.

So let me practice in the stillness,
Let me learn your ancient rhythm,
Until speaking truth becomes as natural
As breathing in the morning air.

For in the end, we are companions—
Truth and I, walking hand in hand,
Through gardens where honesty blooms
And shadows cannot find their hold.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has grown comfortable in my throat,
And lies slip easier than morning coffee—
Sweet, familiar, warming the belly with false comfort.

You whisper in the spaces between heartbeats,
In the pause before I answer 'How are you?'
You live in the mirror's honest reflection,
In the weight of words I swallow instead of say.

I have trained my ears for prettier melodies,
For the songs that tell me I am enough
Without the work of becoming.
Your voice is rougher, demanding,
Like sandpaper against my carefully constructed facade.

But tonight, in this quiet hour,
I practice the discipline of listening—
To the ache in my chest that speaks of longing,
To the tremor in my hands that confesses fear,
To the small voice that admits I am lost
And have been pretending to know the way.

Truth, you are not cruel, only clear.
You do not seek to wound, only to wake.
Teach me the habit of your company,
The courage to let you live on my tongue,
To speak you into the world
Even when your honesty burns.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has grown thick between my ears,
And I have learned to love the comfortable lies
That cushion my steps through ordinary days.

You whisper in the morning mirror,
Reflecting back what I refuse to see—
The lines that map my compromises,
The eyes that have forgotten how to wonder.

I promise to practice your difficult language,
To sit still when you arrive uninvited,
To let you rearrange my careful stories
Until they match the shape of what is real.

For you are not cruel, though you feel sharp
Against the tender places I have hidden.
You are the friend who loves me enough
To tell me when my dress is torn,
When my smile has slipped its moorings,
When I am walking backwards into tomorrow.

Teach me to be a better listener,
To hear your voice above the noise
Of all my clever explanations,
All my beautiful excuses.

Truth, I shall speak you
If I am brave enough to hear you first.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has become my native tongue,
And your voice echoes in chambers I've forgotten—
Dust-covered rooms where honesty once hung
Like portraits of ancestors I never knew.

You whisper through keyholes of conscience,
Slip beneath doors of denial,
Yet I've grown deaf to your persistence,
Preferring the comfort of my trial
By jury of convenient lies.

Oh Truth, you patient teacher,
Waiting in the margins of my days,
I've made myself a poor preacher
Of your gospel, lost in the maze
Of what I think others want to hear.

But perhaps tonight, in this quiet hour,
I'll practice the discipline of stillness,
Let your words bloom like midnight flowers,
Trade my practiced skilled illness
For the medicine of what is real.

Truth, make me fluent in your language again,
Teach me to listen before I speak,
To hear your voice above the din
Of all the comfort that I seek
In the shadows of what I pretend to know.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has grown thick between my ears,
And I have learned to love the comfortable lies
That cushion me from morning's harsh revelations.

You knock upon my door with calloused knuckles,
Demanding entry to my carefully curated world
Where shadows dance in prettier formations
Than the stark geometry of your presence.

I have built altars to convenient fictions,
Burned incense to the gods of self-deception,
While you wait patient as stone,
Sharp as winter wind against my face.

Yet in the quiet hours before dawn,
When defenses crumble like old walls,
I hear your whisper threading through the darkness:
"Listen, and I will teach you how to see."

Perhaps tomorrow I will crack the door,
Let slivers of your light illuminate
The corners where I've hidden from myself,
And learn the sacred art of hearing truth.

For you are not the enemy I've painted,
But the friend who loves me enough
To strip away the masks I've worn so long
I've forgotten the face beneath.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
But silence has grown thick between my ears,
And I have learned to love the comfortable lies
That cushion every morning's harsh awakening.

You whisper in the spaces between heartbeats,
In the pause before I answer difficult questions,
In the mirror's unforgiving honesty at dawn—
Yet I have trained myself to look away.

How many years have I spent building walls
Of pleasant fiction, of maybe and perhaps,
Of stories that make sleeping easier
Than facing what the daylight always knew?

But tonight, in this quiet hour,
I feel your presence like a distant bell,
Calling me back to the sharp edges
Of what is real, what hurts, what heals.

Truth, patient teacher, faithful friend,
I am learning to unclog my ears,
To sit still in your uncomfortable presence,
To let you reshape my clumsy tongue.

For only in the habit of your listening
Can I hope to speak you clearly,
To become the kind of person
Who can bear the weight of what is true.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I abandon heaven's golden shore,
Trade starlight for mortality,
And count each breath a sacred score.

The angels warned of earthly pain,
Of hearts that break like morning frost,
But what are tears compared to gain
Of finding what I thought was lost?

For nothing less than thee would I
Forsake the chorus of the spheres,
Learn how to laugh and how to cry,
To measure joy in mortal years.

The universe may call me fool
For choosing flesh over divine light,
But love has made me break each rule—
Your touch turns darkness into sight.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have learned what it means to live,
To taste the sweet mortality
That only human hearts can give.

So here I stand, no longer winged,
But grounded by this sacred art:
By earthbound love, I am unhinged,
And found my heaven in your heart.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I become a thief of time,
Steal moments from eternity
To make your fleeting presence mine.

I've learned to pick the locks of hours,
To burgle minutes from the day,
Hoard seconds like a miser towers
Gold coins in vaults where shadows play.

The clockmaker grows suspicious now—
His gears run slow, his springs unwind,
While I, with criminal's furrowed brow,
Steal chronos for my lovesick mind.

For nothing less than thee, I'd raid
The treasury of tomorrow's dawn,
Leave future's coffers empty, frayed,
If it means our night's not gone.

The time police may hunt me down,
Arrest me for temporal crime,
But I'll wear handcuffs like a crown
If I can stretch our borrowed time.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I become time's enemy,
A bandit of chronology,
Stealing our infinity.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I unlearn my mother tongue,
Forget the words that made me free,
And speak in languages unsung.

I'd trade my vowels for your smile,
My consonants for your sweet breath,
Walk barefoot down the grammar aisle
To wed you in linguistic death.

For nothing less than thee, I'd burn
Dictionaries at midnight's hour,
Let syllables crash and overturn
To build love's Babel-breaking tower.

The poets rage at my betrayal—
Shakespeare spins within his grave—
But what is verse compared to frail
Whispers that your heartbeat gave?

I'll speak in colors, taste in sound,
Write letters with my fingertips,
Until new language can be found
To match the scripture of your lips.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I become a mute devotee,
Silent as stones beneath the sea,
If silence speaks your name to me.